


Koalas said to post this, so here I am.

by kabrox18



Category: The Good Doctor (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, give me emotional wreck melendez dammit, post-episode, s1e9/Intangibles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13201161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: It almost didn't start. His past statement, waxing poetic aboutbirthdaysandmaking friendshad almost fallen flat. It's haunting him.





	Koalas said to post this, so here I am.

**Author's Note:**

> look i've been way too into this show and honestly? you should go read some of the other fics like SaintClaire's _The Trials of Those Who Keep Squirrels_ and those by georgiehensley. seriously go read them good fics!!

He wakes up in the middle of the night after dreaming of Gabriel's heart not restarting no matter what they did. Jess is asleep next to him--being noisy is out of the question. So, carefully as he can, he wiggles out of bed, crashes down on the couch, and tries to have a silent (or at least muffled) breakdown. 

Between his crawling out of bed, and then the quiet, strange noises she hears, Jessica wakes up and tries to figure it out before actually going out to investigate. In case it isn't him, she doesn’t want to go out and accuse him wrongly of anything, but she hears this mantra of "it started itself" with apologies mixed in and the occasional dry sob. She goes out to the living room, finds him curled toward the back of the couch, gripping one of the pillows white-knuckled and shaking the tiniest bit with every shallow, uneven breath. He's still repeating  _ it started itself _ but she touches him and he just freezes. Goes dead silent, doesn't move.

It's like he hopes she'll just go away.

She gently says, "Neil? Is this about the little boy from the Congo?" and it feels like years pass before he answers, even though she knows it's likely less than five minutes.

"Yes. He almost... His heart didn't..." He can't get it out, not through the heavy lump in his throat, so she nudges him to sit up and takes a spot next to him, wrapping one arm around him and leaning against him. He's a good man, and a fucking  _ brilliant  _ surgeon, but he has his moments of unconfidence. She can see that peering out of the gaps in his years-old armor, so she waits patiently for him to get it out.

"Sixteen seconds," he finally says, voice barely above a weak whisper.

"Sixteen seconds?" She echoes, and he looks up with a familiar steely gaze.

"Sixteen fucking seconds, Jessica. Sixteen seconds from when I unclamped his heart to when it restarted itself. Sixteen seconds that I swear were sixteen years. I saw my career go down the drain, I saw myself having to explain to his mother that he'd been on bypass too long, that I cut the septum to thin, that I ruined an already ruined heart." That steely gaze breaks, his eyes well up, and he chokes out, "I swear to god I thought it wasn't going to beat again. I was so afraid I just killed someone with my mistake. I had a  _ nightmare _ , Jess." She's silent, drinking in his shaky confession, and lets her hand smooth up and down his spine.

"But you didn't. He's alright. Happy as can be. Safe.  _ Alive. _ " 

She knows this won't help, not much, but it may allow him to get back to sleep. Her mind keeps sticking to one thing though--the fact he had a nightmare. Sure, every doctor in every specialization got them. Fears of unintentional malpractice, or mistakes that could cost them everything, but this.  _ This  _ was something else. The tone he used, as well; this was no run-of-the-mill funhouse of guts nightmare that he usually grumbled about over his morning coffee. This was something wholly new. She chewed on it more, before helping him to his feet, gently prying away the pillow to drop it back on the couch, pulling him into a lopsided hug instead.

"I'm sorry I can't help," she mutters into his hair. He just hiccups softly and squeezes her, knuckles curled in her shirt. He won't let go, but she doesn't want him to. She slowly shuffles him back to the bedroom, hand pressed gently between his shoulderblades. She can feel the ratcheted-tight tension knot between them, and she strokes at it with the heel of her palm.

"You're helping. You got me out of that, that half-panic attack, half depressive death spiral I was in. Thanks." It's grumbly and half-hearted, but sincere. 

That’s all that matters.


End file.
